


transfodio

by cursinginenochian



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Croatoan/Endverse, Angst with a Happy Ending, Blood and Injury, Dying Castiel, Episode: s05e04 The End, Fever, Gen, Heavy Angst, Hurt Castiel, Hurt/Comfort, Impala Feels, M/M, Sick Castiel, Stop Hurting Cas 2k17, before everything goes to shit, maybe one day - Freeform, puncture wounds
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-20
Updated: 2017-04-20
Packaged: 2018-10-21 23:36:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,429
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10685226
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cursinginenochian/pseuds/cursinginenochian
Summary: Neither of them are particularly squeamish, but the broken beam of metal sticking out of Cas’s stomach is no papercut.





	transfodio

Bleeding is not an unfamiliar concept to Dean Winchester. That’s not to say that the blood seeping sluggishly from the busted stitches on the side of his head don’t rub him the wrong way -- it’s just not on his top list of concerns at the moment. Although it hasn’t slowed since he’d been hit (almost an hour ago now), and that is a little unsettling. The trees surrounding he and Cas had started to twist and lurch somewhere around the ten-minute mark, so a concussion is definitely possible.

Thanks, Apocalypse.

Head injuries disregarded, what’s really gnawing at Dean is the fact that not one scrape or bruise Cas has collected during today's disaster has faded from his skin this whole time. The heavenly host flew the coop a couple months ago when word had got around that the Righteous Man’s little brother gave the almighty “yes” to Lucifer himself on a silver platter. That was in Detroit -- or so Dean has heard.

Since he and Cas left Bobby to trek towards some sketchy came one of the old man's hunter friends has his heart set on populating and turning into some kind of survivor’s refuge.

“It sounds like a pipe dream,” Dean had confessed to Cas on late night, with whiskey on his breath and a cigarette lit between his lips. He’d knocked the habit years ago, but there was no sense in worrying about lung cancer now. But if Bobby thought this guy as trustworthy, Dean would follow through.

The dispersion of the angels affected Castiel more that anyone. He hasn't been up to par -- not that Dean would ever admit that out loud. Although his powers still shine through during intense combat, like a natural reaction installed into a soldier, Cas has had to piss, eat, and sleep since the angels said sayonara. At night, he dreams like anyone else would, gets chills when it’s cold outside, and throws his guts up, kneeling over the toilet or into a bush every time he tries to outdrink Dean at a dirty, hole in the wall abandoned bar with enough liquor for two.

Neither of them is particularly squeamish, but the broken beam of metal sticking out of Cas’s stomach is no papercut, and honestly, Dean is at a loss. It figures they’d only been running for the hell of it instead of sprinting away from cannibalistic Croats when the stumbled into a Ruin Ground.

“Probably one of the places they bombed,” Castiel said solemnly. They both recognized the town’s name -- one of the first to be hit once the world collapsed into mass hysteria. Well, America, at least. No one’s really sure about what’s going on anywhere else. Since most signals cut out months ago.

 

* * *

 

Two days down the road, Dean’s head is less fuzzy and the gaping wound in Castiel’s side is infected. Not much of a surprise, since the metal protruding from int had been covered in rust and removed in a not-so-sterile environment (ie: the back of the Impala with the aid of a lot of liquor, the last of the somewhat clean shirts they had shoved in the Impala’s trunk as makeshift bandages, and a hell of a lot of willpower.

Dean grips the steering wheel so tightly that his busted knuckles go white, grateful that they at least found enough gas to fill up the tank. He can’t drive the sound of Cas’s pleading cries out of his head.

The beam pulled loose from Castiel’s angry red flesh with a sickening sound that Dean hears every time he closes his eyes.

“Dean, please,” Castiel begged, his voice hoarse and cracking from screaming, “No more. I’d rather die, Dean.”

The eldest Winchester, the only living Winchester, pressed against the wound with all his strength, a blood-soaked tee shirt in hand and did everything he could to block out the sound of his best friend’s voice.

“Dean, you bastard, it hurts,” he gasped, voice pitching up in a hysterical plea. Blood punctuated his words as it dripped from his mouth, pooling from where he’d bitten his lip in pain.

“Shut up, Cas,” Dean hissed. He’s not crying. He’s not.

Night falls once more by the time Dean’s head is swimming far too much to make driving possible, even if only on an empty road. He turns to the backseat once the car’s safely on the side of the road, where Castiel is slumped against the door, eyes frighteningly blank. If not for the rise and fall of his chest, Dean would have guessed he died. The thought is horrific.

 

* * *

 

 

Most of Dean’s energy is spent on getting Cas to hold still. Once he’d snapped out of what Dean figured was a pain and/or trauma induced haze, the effects of the infection began to show themselves. The angel’s eyes are bright and teary with fever, and God, is he loud.

Dean grits his teeth so hard his jaw aches before snapping, “If you don’t shut up the Croats are going to trail us and then you’ll really be wishing you were dead.”

The Impala doesn’t have automatic locks, but luckily Cas is too sluggish to do much more than claw slightly left to the handle of the old, worn door and slur out his discontent through his pain in unholy phrases. The problem is that Dean’s starting to suspect that Enochian curses really are curses and that it isn’t just the shrillness of Cas’s complaints that are making his head ache even more so than usual.

“Dean,” Castiel coughs out with a whine, a tight grasp on the lower regions of his stomach where the blood is seeping through the shitty bandage job. “Dean, please, just let me go. Let me die, Dean--” he’s cut off by a gasp when the Impala hits what the eldest Winchester hopes is just a bump in the road, jolting the ex-angel against the door.

Someone must be answering his prayers because soon enough Cas falls silent, eyes rolling into the back of his head as his skin blanches once more. He’s passed out again from blood loss, and the only way Dean figures he’s still alive is the little sliver of Grace that’s kept him from being cut off by Heaven completely.

 

He slumps further into the car’s blood stained seats as his chest heaves up and down in short, quick breaths. As much as Dean would like to let him be, just for the sake of being able to drive a few miles without having to worry about Cas trying to fight his way out of a moving car, the lack of lucidity in his previous actions are nerve-wracking and Dean’s worries get the better of him.

Checking the road is futile, there are never any other cars on these lonely back roads anymore, but something ingrained deep into Dean’s mind still makes him look left and right, checking his mirrors, before twisting back to catch a glance at Cas.

“Hey,” he hisses, but his friend doesn’t stir. Dean breaks suddenly, grimaces when the jolt doesn’t even phase the unconscious man behind him and tries again. “Castiel,” he calls, reaching back to shake his shoulder. Cas only slumps further into his touch.

We’re far enough away from the Ruin Ground to stop for the night, Dean figures. Besides, he’s getting tired of driving anyway. Pulling over to the side of the unlit road, he makes sure the passenger side is locked before coming to a stop. Once Baby’s headlights flicker off after he kills the ignition, the street goes completely dark. He can’t even make out Cas’s face anymore.

Fishing a small flashlight out of his pocket, Dean grabs the medkit out of the glove box and climbs out of the car as quietly as he can manage, still paranoid that another dead man walking is going to lurch out of the woods beside them. Once he’s sat securely in the seat next to the still frighteningly still Cas, he shuts the door.

The flashlight’s beam shines against Cas’s blood streaked features. “Cas?” Dean whispers again, shaking him by the shoulder once more after he gets no response. Fear claws at his chest. “Cas! C’mon, dude, can’t have you falling asleep on me right now.” And then, desperately, “Just open your eyes, let me patch you up some more.”

The former angel’s skin is pale, glistening in a frighteningly ill fashion against the glare of the battery powered flashlight’s beam. It takes Dean hours to realize that he just might not hear his friend’s voice ever again.

**Author's Note:**

> kudos, comment, and follow me on tumblr!


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